


Gin & Tonic

by ozomin



Series: Reciprocity [2]
Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Blood Play, Body Horror, Fluff and Angst, M/M, avilio is filthy, believe me im crying on the inside, desecration of a dead body, i know these tags sound bad, once again avilio knows just how to escalate the situation, short fiction, slightly body worshippy, spoilers for 10th episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 12:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8057203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozomin/pseuds/ozomin
Summary: Nero's temple is a plane of soft flesh and pulsing veins.





	1. Tonic

**Author's Note:**

> "ozomin what the fuck is this?" this is mostly appease those sick fucks at the hell chat (whom i love) Also b/c it rolled off the fingers surprisingly fast. 
> 
> may i impress upon you that this is fiction and no i do not necessarily approve of Avilio's actions in the latter chapter. 
> 
> with that in mind,  
> Enjoy!!

Nero brushes his lips up against the shell of Avilio's ear, "You awake?" He murmurs, it's soft and curious, the way Nero counts the non existant freckles on his hips.

Avilio grunts, stirring in his grasp.

"I take that as a yes," Nero spreads his palm beneath Avilio's shirt, warm on the cool skin of Avilio's belly. Nero's hand drifts down, thumb brushing the dark tuft of hair at the base of his cock.

Avilio's lips part, gasp breathless and mute as Nero begins to stroke him gently.

He's also just as quick to stop Nero with a grab at his wrist.

Nero stills, "Not in the mood?" He says against his throat. He watches Avilio turn around in his grasp, face him with wide morning light eyes.

Avilio narrows his eyes, unamused. Nero frowns as if his expression alone is enough to convince him. He keeps their gazes locked as Avilio shifts up and over to straddle him.

His legs, his ass are bare beneath Nero's crumpled cotton dress shirt.

Avilio eyes him with intent eyes still cloudy with sleep. Still woefully silent.

"What's this?" Nero raises an eyebrow, swallows at the way Avilio rolls his hips, so slowly, so playfully.

His hair is a milky lavender mess, strands like stalks upright and ready for harvest, the buds of his lips the flowers, Nero would pluck with his fingers.

With a heavy breath, Avilio opens his mouth, half closes his eyes, Nero's a series of bokeh lights behind his lashes, morning flashing across the bed like drawn out lightning.

"You should learn to keep your hands to yourself," he says clipped. Eyes peering down at Nero as if he were inferior.

Even then Nero neglects to take the advice because he grips Avilio's thighs before scooting up the bed into a sitting position.

Nose to nose now, Nero laughs then grins. A shift of emotions that pass like a picture book, bright and colorful.

"Or what, dare I ask, is my punishment?" Nero leans forward, licks Avilio's bottom lip.

Unphased, Avilio reaches above him to the shelf connected to the headboard, he doesn't look at the unopened alcohol or the half full bottle of oil or the almost empty cigarette boxes on Nero's side, but the gun, silver and sleek in his hands.

Nero quiets, doesn't even seem bothered by the reverent way Avilio brings the gun down between them. It glints in the light if he angles it correctly. He lifts the gun slowly, presses the nose of it against Nero's temple.

Nero eyes him with an expression that seems old and worn.

"Or I shoot," Avilio blinks slowly, the way a cat does when it feels safe.

"You could," Nero murmurs, "I wouldn't stop you," he shuts his eyes like a man awaiting death.

Avilio closes the space between them like he'll find the comfort in Nero's mouth.

"Angelo, Angelo," Nero whispers between kisses, a prayer and a curse. He mouths along Avilio's jaw, hands holding him close. "I'm sorry. For all of it,"

He can feel Avilio humming beneath his lips, barely audible but just as erotic, just as expected. Nero doesn't expect forgiveness, probably won't as long as he remains alive.

"You won't die today," Avilio says, joining their lips once more, the gun abandoned beside them. It's like a promise, a timer counting down until Avilio is completely hollow inside.

Nero's woken up by the bottle he'd unwittingly knocked off the desk and onto the floor.

Just more good booze utterly wasted.


	2. Gin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Avilio is livid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

Avilio breathes in heady sweat and gun powder. Nero grips him with hands stained with blood on skin just as stark.

He's almost face to face with the wilting expression of Barbero's limp body. Avilio searches empty eyes behind skewed glasses, one of the rims is bent. The room is dunked into a corrosive rancid heat.

His gut tightens when Nero thrusts particularly hard, his eyes rolling back when the pleasure is too much.

He looks just as dead as the others in the room.

Ganzo is draped over a chair in the corner, dark blood draining onto the cream of the armchair like rain washing down a window pane.

Nero's father is on the floor, eyes open and unseeing, his chest open and bursting, blood seeping into the fabric of Nero's pants.

Avilio eyes the sunken features as he shifts up and down in Nero's lap. Hands pressing into Nero's shoulders for support.

Neither of them would dare say a word, lest the spell be broken, the fragile porcelain sewn spindle be shattered like a glass target aimed with a shotgun. Like the other Vanetti lackeys destroyed in turn, crumpled against book shelves, and hands clawed at the carpet; one is seated in the accompanying cream chair, chest an indecipherable mush of muscle and tissue; the echo of Corteo in his last moments.

Avilio's eyes screw up in anger, Nero's hands digging into his hips as he takes the initiative, thrusting up with no intention of backing off. Avilio will bruise soon, if he's not already.

Nero grunts, teeth grit tight enough to break if he keeps going. Avilio's barely holding on as it is, with one hand on Nero and one on the desk in front of him, they're jostling Barbero's glasses off, they scatter to the floor into a blood sodden section of carpet.

The Vanetti's are dead, and Nero's rapidly hollowing out himself. No charisma, no charm, it's spilling out like come trickling down Avilio's thighs.

"You'll die here too," Avilio gets out between gasps, mouth open and slack. With his hand on the desk, he scrabbles for the gun beneath Barbero's hand, at least he was good for something in the end.

Barbero's hand is still rather limp, rigormortis has yet to set in, the gun slips away easily.

He clutches it tightly, still holding onto the desk as Nero speeds up again, the slap of their skin, so jarring beside the prior gunshots. Some illusion of decadence, just like the way Avilio moans.

Nero curses, head falling back against the front of the desk. The wood, dark and polished is splattered with blood, scuffed with bullet holes and debris fragments.

Avilio's murmuring, "Nero, Nero, Nero," they merge within groans, transform into an ache that settles low and angry in his gut, the same way he brings the gun down.

Nero's eyes are squeezed shut now as Avilio presses the gun into his temple.

Half of him wants to think Nero doesn't see it coming when he pulls the trigger.

Avilio settles down into his lap, cock deep and still warm inside him and with little movements shifts his hips back and forth.

Nero's hands are limp at his sides, whole body pliant and relaxed. Avilio licks at the blood that splatters across his cheek, it's in his hair too.

He drops the gun as if burned like his climax was nothing short of an electric shock.

Avilio watches the semen mingle with the blood, weave together like threads of white and red.

He reaches up with careful fingers and brushes away Nero's blood damp hair from the bullet wound in his temple. As if that would make a difference. The hole is relatively small, it's the exit wound that had splashed him like a pumpkin thrown against pavement.

Nero drips red down his cheeks, still colored with fervor. Eyes barely open, still sky blue, still unafraid. His lips are cracked and dry, moist with spit. Avilio brushes his thumb carefully across them, like a painter observing brush strokes. His own fingers spotted with blood.

Avilio stays nestled into him. Leans their foreheads together and thinks about how they were doomed from the start. He eyes the gun, resting beside Nero's large hand, he's still so warm, and feels the urge climb up his throat like bile.

What now?

Avilio's woken up once again by the drop of glass on carpet.

Nero should know better than to drink himself to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> idk this could have taken place during the night of lawless heaven when they finally fall asleep or at some other time, it's pretty open in that manner. Also Nero is almost oblivious but clearly he knows Avilio's name.


End file.
